The Carved Crucible

AN: Disclaimers still apply, especially as my original characters are entirely mine.

I feel compelled to add – if you have something to say, feel free to leave a review! And thanks.

The Hogwarts Express pulled into Hogsmeade with a wake of smoke. Calliope stepped off the train, satchel and book at the ready. She had (appropriately) reached the line in Lady Wren and Sister Helga's tale when they start upon the road that would one day become the route of the Hogwarts Express.

She looked in her hand at the key to Dora's Hogsmeade flat. A string tied her address to the key, and Calliope strode down the main street of Hogsmeade, keeping an eye out for Sow-Whet Street.

The sun broke through the cloud cover to bring Hogwarts Castle out of the dreary landscape. Calliope stopped on the street to look at it. She squinted one eye and raised her hand to point out Ravenclaw Tower. Then she dropped her hand in case anyone was watching, which prompted her notice that the street was surprisingly empty for a summer afternoon. The sky was overcast and the breeze blew chillier than summer's usual prescription. A poster advertising Bellatrix Lestrange's face was plastered over a poster promoting some candidate for Hogsmeade mayor. (As though her face could have been forgotten even in twelve years.)

Calliope found Sow-Whet Street and hurried down it. Her and Dora's new place was a very small cottage with a bit of a garden and fence attached, closer to the castle than most of the village.

Inside, the place was furnished with cardboard boxes and a few food items placed haphazardly about the kitchen. It had no sense of belonging to Dora, or indeed to anyone. Calliope only stayed long enough to pull out the Cleansweep Five that she knew would be tucked in the boots and umbrella closet, and to lock the door again behind her.

And the end of Sow-Whet Street, where the cobblestones sank and curled into grass and only a lamppost remained, Calliope sprang onto the broom, lightly swung her bag over one shoulder, and took off, calculating that she could easily reach Hollywyck by sunset without exhausting the broom. She flew close to the canopy of the Forest, but not close enough to scare flocks of birds in the trees, or so close that a thestral rising out of the woods would scare her off her broomstick.

It was from Hollywyck's front porch, she remembered, that she had first seen a thestral, two days after her mother's death. Calliope had just completed her last year at Hogwarts, and had long since known that thestrals pulled the Hogwarts carriages, but she had still been unreasonably scared of them, shrinking behind the door. That was six years ago; since then; her father had moved out the British Isles and to Morocco. Neither Calliope nor Linus had seen their father face-to-face in a year.

Calliope recalled all this with a sigh, bending lower over the broomstick so it would accelerate. From a distance she might have been a dark bird flapping coldly against the sky.

The sun was approaching the horizon, slowly, as it always did in Scotland. At Hollywyck, Scurry knew to sweep the kitchen, light the fire, put on some tea, dust Calliope's bedroom, and unlock the back door fifteen minutes before Calliope herself walked in through that very door.

"Ah! Miss Calliope! We has a feeling it be Mistress Calliope, and here she is sure as life! Welcome-welcome!" Scurry was curtsying, and managed to put the Cleansweep Five away at the same time, chatting delightedly in her squeaky voice. "You'll find your old bedroom is just the same as ever it was, Miss Calliope dear, and we can get a hot bath running for as soon as you like. Say the word!"

Calliope smiled and bade the elf relax. Scurry still insisted on pulling Calliope to the table and would not rest until the Mistress was seated, and had a cup of hot tea before her, and some shortbread biscuits for good measure, because Scurry is a Hollywyck house-elf and the Hollywyck house-elves never do halves.

Calliope blew the steam off her tea. Scurry surveyed her affectionately with large brown eyes, (no doubt noting where stitches and mending were required) and Calliope did the same. Scurry wore a ratty towel that had once been decorated with yellow duckies, drawn around her like a sari. Her ears, being unusually long and a bit of an inconvenience, had been hidden under a piece of red curtain, which wrapped and was tied in a knot at the top of her head.

"So, Scurry," Calliope took a biscuit, "How has Hollywyck been?"

"Rather quiet, as usual," Scurry swept the floor at her feet with one toe, "But we be getting a visitor recently. Strange visitor, too."

"A visitor? Whom?" Calliope leaned forward. "Or who, whichever."

"Another house-elf. Name of Dobby."

Calliope nodded. "What family is… it?"

"He use to belong to the Malfoys, but…" Scurry leaned forward, twisting her mouth guiltily, "He is a free elf, Mistress!"

Calliope's jaw dropped a little. "A free elf? From the Malfoys?"

"Well, he works at Hogwarts now, Miss, but he is paid, by Albus Dumbledore himself! He says his loyalty is due only to those who earn it! He, he boasts of it! He says his loyalty is to Harry Potter, Albus Dumbledore, Ron Weasley, and – ah, but he says the last is secret. He's not even told us!"

Calliope, raising an eyebrow, sensed that Scurry was quite taken with Dobby, much as she disapproved.

"And he brings a friend, too, Miss, name of Winky. And here's a gasper – Winky once belonged to the Crouch family!"

Calliope's tea almost wasn't swallowed. "As in Bartemius Crouch?"

"No other! She came with a mixed opinion of the Ollivanders, turning up her potato nose at us, but we soon felt for the poor thing, forced to freedom for some trifle… she persisted she deserved it, Dobby persisted she did not, but the fact remains the elfkin took it awful hard. Dobby is thinking a grand house like Hollywyck might ease her homesickness after work with those hundred other elves in Hogwarts. So sometimes – not often, but occasionally, Dobby persuades us to…" a drawing of breath, "let her clean."

Calliope almost laughed, but stopped herself.

"That's fine." She leaned back. "If it's therapeutic for her, I see no harm. And I'm sure Linus would agree," she added quickly. "How long have these visitors been coming?"

"For a little over a year now. Dobby is first bringing Winky down a month after the Triwizard Tourney is over, and now we sees him, if not Winky, at least once every two months. He is quite merry company, though he speaks so – so giddily of freedom! As if he were drowned in butterbeer! Scurry has always had a loose tongue, Miss, but Dobby makes us glad there's not humans around to hear!"

"A free elf," Calliope mused, "In Dumbledore's pay. Strange. But, Scurry, you got my owl, right?"

"Yes, Mistress! And we prepared your room all smart and got Mistress Philomel's wands too. Lady Philomel's wands in their cedar box, do you want to see them?"

"Yes, Scurry, I would, at once."

Scurry leapt up eagerly and took Calliope's now empty teacup to the sink. "Is Miss sure she is not hungry for another biscuit or –"

"No, Scurry."

Scurry nodded, and without ado proceeded into the hallway to the parlor, to the stairway that led upstairs. Calliope knew there was a stairway from the kitchen as well, but also knew it was no good to argue; Scurry insisted that the Masters used the Master's stairwell.

As the two reached the landing, Calliope paused at the large hexagonal window with its hand-sized diamond panes to look at the view. The dense forest around Hollywyck was beginning to tinge itself in reds, at least where the most autumn-eager trees grew. Calliope put her hand on the glass to look through and down a little. Scurry, already halfway up the next flight, stopped to look at her, but didn't speak.

Through the myrtle leaves that partially blocked the window, Calliope could just see the corner of the winding, disseminate Ollivander family graveyard.

"I'll visit Mother's before I go," she murmured half to herself, "And Benedicte's, too." She had never understood Dora's referral to her paternal grandparents' burial mounds as "Grammy" and "Pop-pop," as if they were the real people. It was an affectation. Graves were graves.

"Scurry noticed that the lilacs and sunflowers in the flower garden are blooming very fine, with maybe some extras for cutting." The elf was at Calliope's feet, looking up.

Calliope's mouth turned down a minute. "I don't like lilacs," she said, "maybe sunflowers. But Scurry, let's go to the wands."

Up the stairs they went and down a narrow hallway. Calliope glanced into her room as they passed it – a pale blue room with flowers painted on the cupboards and desk and walls, still the room of her childhood. Into the room at the far end of the hall did Scurry turn, and with a flick of one long, callused finger, opened the door. Calliope, with some reverence, stepped into her parents' bedroom.

As she crossed the threshold, she automatically turned her head to look at the painting above the fireplace. The curtains were closed now; they always were. But Calliope glanced there all the same.

The window was shuttered, but the shutters were not drawn, so that enough light from the sunlight's last quarter-hour fell in to give the room a grayish cast with a red tinge, reflecting the mahogany of the small table in its center. The table bore a simply but elegantly made – and enchanted – box made of cedar wood. Scurry placed the key to it in Calliope's outstretched hand. Calliope opened it with a small click and it creaked to reveal six wands and one empty wand-shaped slot impressed into red velvet. (Calliope knew where the seventh wand was – tucked in Linus' briefcase to help with his work.)

She ran her left index finger over each, reciting each wood like a dead saint's name. Scurry, quiet as a moth, left the room.

"Birch. Palmetto. Redwood. Dogwood. Plum. Lombardy."

Calliope began to speak to the wands.

"You served my mother. She won you all in fair fights, and in her will left them to her children. Well, I have need of one of you now. Which will it be?" She took a deep breath. "It was a moment of carelessness – shock, hurry, carelessness – that made me lose my own wand. Believe me, no one regrets it more than I do. The only comfort I have is that I sent a friend to collect my wand and bring it back. If it's at all possible, he'll bring it back to me."

Somewhere, far away, though not as far as she thought, Mark Printzen sneezed.

"But I promise you that I'll treat you with utmost respect – not the least because you belonged to my mother. Now, I'm warning you here." A pause. "You're going to have to fight. You didn't ask for it, well, neither did I, but evidently we're needed. I'll do all that I can to help and try to return to a peaceful living as soon as I can. No heroism for me – I'm not a Gryffindor like Mum. But I'll fight hard, and I'll use you well. We've got to fight, so which will it be?"

No sound. The wands made no answer.

Tentatively, Calliope raised her left hand (remembering uneasily that the wands' previous owners had likely been right-handed) and, eyes half-closed, touched each wand gently with her fingers.

Secretly she'd hoped for a spark with the birch wand, so like in color to her own linden, and kept her fingers on it for a moment longer than the palmetto, or redwood, or dogwood received. All the wands were listless.

However, the plum wand warmed to her touch immediately and she involuntarily grasped it. Smiling, she opened her eyes and flicked the wand at an empty pitcher on her parents' washstand. With ease, the pitcher lifted itself up and levitated to the chest of drawers on the other side of the room. Calliope looked at the plum wand and then, just for thoroughness, ran a finger over the edge of the Lombardy wand. No thrill, no spark.

Calliope closed the cedar box, now with two empty slots, and took her new wand into the sunlight to study it critically. Plum was not as light nor as fine-grained as linden, but the wood was firm, a good length, and seemed to be Ollivander make. So far, so good. Calliope rolled the wand between her hands and whispered, "Coerum Montay." The wand thrilled and from its tip shot a flurry of green sparks that formed into a small green dragon. The sparkling apparition curled like a cat and gave a short roar like the low note of a cello before evaporating. Calliope was satisfied.

She walked to her own room across the hall and said, "Scurry, I've found a wand. You can put the others away now."

"Yes, Mistress!"

"Put out some clothes for me, I still have a few in this room, and remind me that I'll need to visit Gladrags – next week, perhaps – "

"Yes, Mistress."

Calliope sat on the bed, and carefully put her plum wand on the nightstand. Tomorrow there'd be time to worry what its strengths were, whether defensive or deceptive, Charms or Transfiguration. Today, though, today – the sun was setting, and it felt like ages since she had woken up in her apartment in Boston, and received Uncle Servaas' owl. And the conversation with Dora, and then with Mark…

A few minutes later, Scurry, with a knowing little smile, carefully took off the sleeping Calliope's shoes and, with her own magic, moved her onto the bed properly and under the covers, for a long, undisturbed sleep.

This is the second day of my captivity. I am resolved to hide this notebook somewhere different every time, so that Turpentine does not find it. He has come down to the basement twice; he has never spoken to or even looked at me, not even when bringing me food. The food is decent, breakfast and dinner. Turpentine is a man on the tall side, and dresses well. I would place his status at upper-middle class. He spends much time in the evenings in his cellar. He has several mirrors down here and I think he is trying to enchant them. However, since I arrived he has set up a set of table legs made of spindly metal, like a garden table. But the top of it, a large disc of what looks like marble, sits by itself against the wall. Other than that, there are only assorted boxes and a few books in this cellar, that and my pallet and W.C.

Third day of my captivity. Now late evening. He came by earlier. He has set the slab onto the legs; it makes me think of a sundial now. He took out his wand – a light colored wand, couldn't tell the wood – and levitated the slab in midair, carving a shape on it. I pretended to be asleep, but I could watch – he used first a spell to lay perfectly straight, angled red lines over the stone, and then carefully chiseled a groove with his wand. He made two triangles, overlapping. It looks like the Seal of Solomon, but there was something off – an imbalance that I'm sure is deliberate. He looked exhausted. He'll probably finish tomorrow. I really strained my eyes looking at that slab. Can't write anymore.

Fourth morning. Spine sore. I wonder if I shall ever see Hollywyck again. Turpentine said something else, he wished me a hearty goodbye saying I should have fun exploring my memories. I'm afraid. I think I know what he plans for me now.

Holly's growing across the door, linden oak grow merry in time, and cedar makes the ceiling and floor, myrtle means a true love of mine.

Eyes still hurt. But I have to write this down. It helps me remember. Better times. Friends. Smiles. Christmas trees.

Hazel berries are bitter with truth, linden oak grow merry in time, but willow gives nepenthe and ruth, myrtle means a true love of mine.

Mark Printzen's third day in the United Kingdom was his first day in London. He was feeling quite giddy. The first three days of his journey were spent at the Edinburgh Fringe Theater Festival, where he witnessed the opening of his friend Bridget's play and watched four shows in one day, when not going on ghost tours of the city and climbing Arthur's Seat. Edinburgh had enchanted him with its history and beauty, and the friendly middle-aged lady who ran the inn said "theäs oon" just like in that Thomas Hardy poem.

But London, that was what Mark had been waiting for.

(It should be noted that among the things Mark kept with him at all times in his small backpack was the wand that he had found in Boston. He checked it every evening to be sure it was in one piece, but never took it out otherwise.)

What a lark, what a plunge! Mark found himself repeating that often. The air wasn't as clean as he'd imagined, and the sunlight was rather like the sunlight back home in Boston, but it was London. He took the first tour of monuments and landmarks that was recommended, and, having not brought a camera, wrote down everything he observed. Thus his notebook, usually devoted to spur of the moment observations, cursory poetry, or phone numbers, found itself tormented with use until, to his delight, he filled it. This gave him an excuse to buy a new notebook embossed with William Shakespeare's signature at the Globe Theater, in which the first note was, circled and underlined, "See Peter Pan statue!"

For lunch, he feasted on fish and chips (but abstained from English beer) and spent a whole hour strolling around Kensington Gardens (with the Peter Pan statue given due reverence.) Then, because he couldn't get tickets for any West End musical, he decided to explore.

He sat on a park bench in Kensington Gardens. When he was certain no one was watching, he took out the wand. Holding it loosely in his hand, he said, "Where should I go now? Guide me."

The wand did nothing. However, a breeze came up. Mark looked in the direction of the breeze, and over his right shoulder he saw a huddle of people standing together – all four wearing long cloaks, and pointed hats.

Mark looked around. No one else in the park was wearing cloaks, and certainly not in colors such as olive green and vivid sapphire. But no one else in the park was staring, or had even noticed.

Mark put the wand away, and watched them. After a while, they broke up, and one person – a very short man in a purple cloak – walked past.

Mark got up and followed him. Followed him down several streets –Blackfriars, Crookwalk, Kickshaw – until he entered a little square, lined with shops. He stopped to check his watch - (one-thirty-five on the dot) and when he looked up again, the man had vanished.

"Hm," said Mark.

He looked around the square. The intersection of Kickshaw and Tortile was a metropolitan square, only distinguished by a rather generic and faded statue of a man in 1700's garb, whose back was currently to Mark, facing into the wall between a record shop and a large bookstore. Mark looked around to see if there was an inn anywhere in sight. He saw a hamburger joint on his right, to his left, a metro station and other small shops, with a dentist's office rounding it out.

The tourist sighed. A dead end. But at least there was a bookstore.

He made for the bookstore, always glancing around – and then saw something that made him stop. Then he stepped closer, to be sure of what he was seeing.

Sláine Doran was not being paid enough for this.

No doubt many adolescents across England would adore being paid to loiter, but not Sláine. It was not fun to be one of the undercover security guard for the Leaky Cauldron. She'd been equipped with a pair of sunglasses that let her see what magical items a person was carrying as they entered the Leaky – and supposedly they would give a special look to anything with Dark Magic.

Sláine thought the whole exercise was counterintuitive. Any wizard at all, even an eager child who hadn't bought a wand yet, would have magic all over them. Magic wove together a wizard's clothes, kept a witch's purse tightly stitched together. The contents of any wizard's purse would be rife with magic, from the money to the chewing gum. Looking through the sunglasses, you could even see a glimmer of magic on people's skin, blocking from sunburn, giving them smoother skin, redder lips, thicker hair. And who would attempt bringing a piece of Dark Magic with them into the Leaky Cauldron? Sláine wondered uneasily if the sunglasses could see through an enchanted cloak and into the Dark Mark beneath… and would she even want to see that?

She scanned the square again, and something caught her eye. It was not an unusual proliferation of magic, as she had been half-waiting for all day; quite the opposite, in fact.

"He – he's got a wand…" she leaned forward, trying to still be inconspicuous. " But... but…"

'But nothing else,' her mind answered. The clothes of the young man – surely not an undiscovered Muggle-born wizard – were utterly magic-free, he didn't seem to even notice the Leaky Cauldron, and the wand he carried sat in a backpack, of all things – not in a pocket, where it could be quickly grasped just-in-case. There was nothing else in the backpack that had the faintest bit of magic to it.

Sláine was starting to get nervous. She fumbled in her pocket for the small aluminum can with a cheery yellow and green 'Weasley's Wicked Walky-Talkies' printed on it. She spoke into it, saying, "Beynon? Beynon Gladstone? Do you hear me?"

A voice from inside the can answered her, "The correct term is, 'Red Coat, Do you copy,' Green Shoot, not, 'Do you hear me.' And yes, I copy."

She could see Beynon from the other side of the square. His large, bulky figure leaned against a wall. The fake leather jacket he'd borrowed to blend in with the Muggles suited him almost too well.

"There's a man in Muggle clothes – wearing a red jacket – lolling around the statue, do you see him?"

"The one with the – the – what's that in his backpack?"

"I think it's a wand."

"Why doesn't he have anything else?"

"I don't know, that's why I called you…" she shifted the 'Walky-Talky' to hide it better behind her book. "Does he look like he noticed the Leaky Cauldron yet?"

"No. Seems utterly aimless."

"Why would he have a… I guess he could be a wizard who's trying to be a Muggle?"

"And why would he be trying to do that?"

"I don't know…"

"What if he's a wizard in disguise?"

"Then why is his wand so deeply hidden?"

"He's only waiting to bring it out for something big."

"…What?"

"Waiting for a signal. Waiting to launch the surprise…"

"Come on, Beynon…"

"Well, why don't you suggest a reason, eh? Eh?"

"I… I guess that could be it…"

"Any other ideas? I'm going to start to make a move…"

"He could be – "

"What?"

"He could be under the Imperius Curse. Maybe? And he was told to dress up as a Muggle? But… um… Do you copy?"

"I copy. I'm going to – why is he heading towards the Leaky? Does he see it?"

Mark slowly approached the wood planks that stood between the stores, and pushed them lightly, to see if there was a loose board that she may have walked through – no go. However, crudely carved into one plank, at an adult's eye level, was an arrow. Mark looked down – at the level of his hand, there was a carving of what looked like a crucible, or a cauldron, weathered and faded.

Mark reached out to press the crucible, but yanked his hand back at the last second. His eyes quickly scanned the square to see if anyone was watching – no one had even paused. Only the statue that glared between the stores could see what he did now. Carefully, deliberately, Mark reached into his bag and pulled out the white wand. Taking a deep breath, he gently lay the tip of the wand against the carved crucible and said,

"Open sesame."

Nothing happened.

In the Cauldron, trouble was brewing. It began when Dolores Umbridge, never a well-liked patron to begin with, approached the barman, gripping her handbag so tightly that her knuckles were white.

"Excuse me, sir! You, sir!" She approached the end of the bar opposite to where Tom was, evidently unwilling to cross paths with a man asleep at the counter. She had snapped her fingers three times before Tom had arrived at acceptable proximity.

"You may call me Tom, marm."

Umbridge evidently didn't care. Her face was contorted in clear disgust as she pointed a trembling finger at the door. "Have you not noticed what is outside that door?"

"No, marm, I had not."

"There is – a Muggle outside. He is trying to get in."

Tom's brows furrowed and he looked around the pub for an unaccompanied, Muggle-born young wizard or witch whose eager rush into the Leaky Cauldron had left their parent or guardian stranded outside. It had happened before. But there was no unaccompanied minor. He followed Umbridge, quavering with indignation, to the door. It was then that he noticed that other patrons near the door had moved away, or at least were looking askance at the checked window dressings. He pushed aside the curtain with a skinny finger. And there was, in fact, a Muggle at the door.

"He says something," he murmured, "and stares at the door, but doesn't push it open. He" – he leaned closer to the window, squinting, "He's got a wand, but he doesn't use it, he seems to be – prodding the wand against the door?"

"A menace," Umbridge was heard to snarl, "a threat."

"Looks harmless," He said to the assembled crowd. Then Tabitha Crockford came forward, in her timorous manner, and, putting a wizened hand on Tom's shoulder, said, "could it be, Mr. Tom, that he's a deranged wizard? Made mad by the Imperius Curse? How can we let that go by?"

"Ah!" Tom said with relief. "Don't worry about it no more, see, here's Beynon come to talk to him, yes, our Beynon. No need to fret, folks! Everything's going to be just fine!"

"Hey, sir."

"What?"

"What do you think you're doing?"

"Ah… what… what does it look like I'm doing?"

"Where did you get that wand?"

"This? This belongs to a friend."

"It's not really yours?"

"Hey, what business is it of yours?"

"Do you even know what you're trying to do?"

"No, but I think you're trying to be very rude and belligerent."

"Excuse me, Yank."

"What was that?"

"What are you, a Muggle and a Yank, doing here in this square?"

"What did you call me? A Yank and a what?"

"Ah, Merlin. You don't even know, do you?"

"Know what?"

"Never mind." The tall, heavyset man half-turned away from Mark and lifted what looked suspiciously like an aluminum can to his mouth. "Red Coat to Green Shoot, do you copy?"

Slaine answered, "I see you from the other side of the square. Yes, I copy."

Mark leaned over a bit. "Why are you holding a soda can to your ear? Is there a string attached somewhere?"

"How do you call the Muggle Liaison Office?"

Slaine slumped. "… Hell, I dunno."

"Bloody hell. All I know how to call's the Auror Division and M.L.E. …"

"Guy's a Muggle?"

"Yeah…"

"Enough of this," hissed a voice inside the Leaky Cauldron.

Suddenly,on either side of Mark there was a zing in the air, a rush of wind, and suddenly two figures clad in black with gold stripes appeared beside him.

"What in the –"

Mark started, his heart racing. "Sirs –" he began, but could not finish before the two men grabbed his arms, and one, beckoning with a wand of his own, opened the fence to reveal –

A densely crowded pub, full of oddly dressed people who stared at Mark with stark curiosity as the two men dragged him past.

The men took Mark upstairs and into a little sitting room that was not empty when they entered. Mark's adrenalin did not let up even when he was thrown into a chair in an upstairs lounge. Indeed, his first instinct was to stand right back up and inspect the painting over the fireplace before he became aware that a wand was pointed at his temple.

"Sit down," said a voice used to command.

Mark sat down. He began to wonder what the black and gold robes meant, and a prickle of fear stung his heart – but he wouldn't dare show it yet.

"What is your name?" said the man who had spoken.

"P-Printzen, sir." Years of Catholic schooling came to the surface in reflexive politeness.

"Just Printzen?"

"Mark Printzen, sir."

Too late Mark recalled the three taboos of dallying with magic: 1. Don't touch unfamiliar food, 2. Call them "the Fair Folk", and 3. Don't ever reveal your real name.

A bit too late.

The other person in the room stood up. Maybe it was the layers of pink that swathed her bloated figure, maybe it was the pale, compressed anger of her face, but Mark had an immediate impression that this was not a healthy woman.

"Mark Printzen, under the authority of Dolores Umbridge, you are under arrest by the Ministry of Magic."

A/N: Well, that's it for this chapter. Note: I will not be updating next week, saying it right now, because I will be very busy. But don't worry – from here, the plot kicks into gear, so your patience will be rewarded. Thank you for reading!